Post It's
by bluethursday
Summary: Dick and Tim connect through post it's.


_Summary: Tim leaves himself post it notes. Dick joins in. _

Note: I am blatantly using the plot line from a short story from the comic, DEMO by Brian Wood and Becky Cloonan. Just saying.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

**Post It's**

Tim wakes up with the morning sun, the softness of a good nights sleep rolling off his shoulders. The post it on the ceiling is the first thing he sees. It's a dull kind of yellow, bright enough to be seen and soft enough to be gentle on his eyes.

_Time to get up Tim._

It's a comfort to see it there, his clean handwriting, black pen, staring back him. It feel good to see it there.

Beside him, on the bedside table lie a few more of the sticky yellow pieces -

_Close and lock the window. Go to the bathroom._

Each post it only has one message. Each one is a perfect square of calm in his day. He knows exactly what he has to do, each step outlined for him. He doesn't have to to think and this early in the morning, that's a blessing.

His bathroom window is covered with them, little reminders to brush his teeth and comb his hair, and to replace the tube of toothpaste that was running out, or have his assistant replace it for him. His favorite one is the one he placed on the front door when he first moved in, its graying at the edges, a testament to its longevity.

_You're wonderful._

It always makes him smile. No one has ever told him he's wonderful, not the way he needed them to. Smiling he presses his fingers to the small, wonderful piece of paper, before he leaves for his day.

His therapist, the one he goes to, because he thinks he should, because he knows that this isn't normal tells him he has a mild case of obsessive compulsive disorder, fueled by his anxiety. He knows this, he goes to her office anyway with a group of notes on his lap.

_All therapists talk like that. Breathe out accept it._

He thinks it would be easier to change, if it didn't make him happy. The little notes he leaves for himself. The one he plastered on the back of the seat, as his chauffeur drove him to work.

_You're making great time. _

The one he placed on the telephone pole, the one the car passes by each day.

_You'll be just fine. Eat lunch._

Because sometime he forgets. Both of those things.

Is this really so bad, his little habit, if it makes him happy, if it's what he does to get through his day. There are worse things he could do to cope. He could brush his teeth until his gums bled, he could leave his hands under the tap until they turn red and blistered from the heat, but he doesn't.

He leaves himself little yellow notes, tucked into all corners of his life.

…

He walks to a shop on the corner by his work when the weather permits. Today is one of those days.

A spot of yellow catches his eye, and that's not something special. He's got dozens of notes placed on sighns, and poles and lights, but he didn't put this one up.

Picking it off the wall his eyes widen.

_Who are you? Can we talk like this? _

The last one is -

_Watch the time._

He checks his watch. He really needs to get his lunch. He's spent too long just staring at this foreign note. He'll be late coming back to work and he's never late. He can't be late. Looking for his own notes, the ones he left just in case he ever ran late, buried under the other ones, he finds one, not the one he was looking for, but it makes him smile none the less.

_I love that this is who you are._

"Really?" He whispers, his fingers touching the note, his hand touches his lips in shock. No one has ever told him something like that before. Its always been, that he was sick, that he was wrong, that he needed to get better.

Blushing he goes into the shop and eats his lunch in peace. Maybe it was okay to be late just this once.

…

They come in a shade of blue now, a soft pastel like the yellow, but the blue makes them all the more clear.

Blue means that someone else is writing them. That someone else is leaving them for him. They're perfect and they have never failed to make him smile, because -

_Good Morning_, has never looked as sweet as it did from the back of a stop sign.

His therapist tells him that playing along with the other person, whoever they are would undermine the work they did together. That it would encourage his compulsion. He doesn't think she understands, regardless of how she tells him she does, just what this means.

His ex boyfriend had called him a freak after saw the state of Tim's living room. He told him that he couldn't be with someone who needed to plan out every second of their life and that wasn't what his notes where about at all. They were about making him happy, about leaving space for him to breathe.

The next morning he throws away all the notes in his house, because he needs to try. He hopes he won't regret this.

He wakes up, and for the first time in years he can see himself in his bathroom mirror. The blue note on the storefront window asks him if he would like to grab a coffee, it has an arrow. It's like following breadcrumbs, finding each note left for him. The table he sits on, when he finally gets to his destination tells him that should breath deep and that his, date? Co-respondent? Would be back soon.

He doesn't know what he's expecting, but the handsome man with his blue eyes and sweeping black hair isn't what he expected.

"Hi, I'm Dick Grayson, and I think you're wonderful."

Smiling shyly Tim pulls out the yellow note he had clung to the entire day. Placing it on the table, he looks away.

Hi.

Laughing Dick takes the seat in front of him.


End file.
